


Don't Panic

by lady_mab



Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crime, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Femme Fatale, Gen, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Personalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_mab/pseuds/lady_mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left Right, the whole world's on fire,<br/>Black widow known to keep my eyes on the prize,<br/>Web unstuck, pray to lady luck,<br/>You think your going to get me but your never going to get me alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

One of the locals had tipped her off that morning, a discreet message slipped in with her breakfast. It wasn’t the same man that had always brought her meals whenever she ordered in. She knew this one quite well, intimately. (He was going to be her next, but apparently she would never have the chance.)

Leonie cleaned up best she could. A fresh coat of lipstick, another attempt to tame the wild mass of curls on her head, slipped into something much more comfortable. 

She positioned herself at the desk table when they arrived, looking up from a book in as much innocence as she could muster when there was none to be given. A pretty smile painted on her lips. 

_Don’t let them see,_ she had told herself in the mirror. 

_Don’t let them see how terrified you are they got this close._

“Gentlemen.” She appeared surprised but pleasantly so. She never met any of their gazes head on. Not only was it impolite for a woman to do so, but it would certainly give away the message. 

“Miss Barrow, if that is indeed your real name.” The lead detective was a solemn looking man, barely older than herself. He wore a pair of blue glasses despite the dim light inside the shabby hotel. He dressed like an undertaker, which was probably the least strangest thing about him. “We have reason to suspect that you are responsible for the deaths of these four men.” He came to stand next to her and, from a folder gripped in his left hand, began to lay out the images of the crime scenes before her.

She wasn’t listening. She kept a shocked and appalled expression in place, because really—who would be barbaric enough to show a woman crime scene photos? (Even if yes, she had seen worse. Caused worse, even.)

“There are only three photos, sir,” she said, turning her head to look up at him. 

A strange series of emotions crossed his face, though they were quickly smoothed over as he placed a fourth photo on the table. This wasn’t of a crime scene. This was a handsome young man whose face that froze her blood. “The fourth, that is to say, the first victim, and the reason I am investigating this case: My brother, Horst Cabal.” 

Ice churned through her veins, stopped her heart, clogged her throat until she choked out the next words. “He’s dead?” Her voice barely reached the level of a faint sigh, but he heard her all the same.

Detective Cabal’s lips pressed into a thin line and he motioned at one of the officers behind her. “I think you had better come with us, Miss Barrow.”

She couldn’t keep the utter panic from her eyes as a strong hand landed on her shoulder to hoist her to her feet. 

He wasn’t supposed to be dead.


	2. Chapter 2

She had been on the run since the fire. It was her first, though it will never be credited to her name. 

She went by a different moniker then, just waiting for the time when she could return as herself and the past would be forgotten. “Rosie”, with her demure smile and fluttering eyelashes.

Rosie found herself in the sleepy little town when she was still a waif of a girl, barely sixteen, barely smart enough to keep her head on her shoulders as she made her way through the world alone. 

She thought she was going to be safe there, that she would be able to start a new life away from the memory of the late husband. 

Then Horst waltzed into the picture, drunkenly, one summer night. It all went downhill from there, because suddenly Rosie thought that she would never be able to live without him. He told her all sorts of outlandish stories, of all these towns and cities he had visited. It didn’t take long before he began to ask if she wanted to come with him to see the rest of the world. (“A trip is always better with a beautiful girl at my side, you know. Builds character.” “For you or me, Mister Cabal?” “The car, actually. The car gains so much knowledge from the people that drive in it over its lifetime.”) 

The memory alone brought a smile to her face. 

But she played hard to get. She knew it would do no good to just up and leave when she had the chance at a quiet life. If he could have been a quiet man, well, that would have made everything different. It would have made her stay, and he would stay with her. 

Despite all that, Rosie knew she was in love. That was the rub, though. Rosie was in love with this strange, fascinating young man, and Horst was in love with Rosie. 

Dissent came from Leonie, the forgotten girl inside someone else’s head, inside a body that used to belong to her until recently (or maybe not so recently, maybe not since he produced the ring and announced to her father the goods he was willing to supply). _Leonie_ was not in love, and this troubled Rosie. They were the same person, weren’t they? The same mind in the same body but then something came along in the shapely form of Horst Cabal, back lit by the flames that constantly haunted her dreams. 

And so Leonie was forced to sleep — forgotten, unloved, silent. 

That afternoon by the river was so completely unforgettable, but only because she would never be able to sacrifice the tumultuous mix of emotions that coincide with the memory. The hole it would rip would be too large to ever dream of fixing. 

He had given her a ring. A small one, cheap, the best he could afford, and it was perfect. 

“Why, Mister Cabal? Are you asking me to marry you?” 

“No. Yes. I mean, that is to say, not really.” He smiled, disarming and charming and sweet enough to break her heart before she could even break his. 

“Then what is this, if not a proposal?” 

“I am serious when I ask you to come with me, Rose. At least one adventure. Please?” 

“Horst, I don’t know…” 

“I could take you somewhere small, out of the way, if that’s your concern.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” She sighed and reached absently for the deck of cards that sat between them. The game of gin remained abandoned on the picnic blanket. Her fingers pulled the top card and her eyes widened in betrayed shock when the queen of spades stared back at her. 

“Rosie?” 

The card was a warning bell, and Leonie woke from her slumber. She quickly hid the card back in the deck and looked up at Horst. 

His brow was furrowed, the ruts of concern etched deep across his forehead. She reached out and wound her fingers through his hair and kissed the lines away. “I’ll come.” 

The darkness immediately gave way to pure joy. “You will?” He kissed her once, twice, on either cheek, then jumped to his feet before she could say anything. “I’ll go fetch the car.” 

“Do that.” She smiled up at him, shading her eyes from the sun that slipped in between the branches of the tree. 

“Wait right here.” 

“I have nowhere else to go.”

Horst started to scramble up the bank, back toward the road he would follow into town, to the lot where he kept his car. He stopped and turned back to her. “I love you, my complicated, thorny Rose.” 

The words caused her cheeks to burn in indignation, but she smiled and ducked her head. “Just get going.” 

“I’ll be right back!” he called over his shoulder as he crested the hill and disappeared over the ridge. 

Leonie waited until his happy humming left her ears. Once it was gone, save for a faint ringing in her ears in memory, her hands sprung into action. She dug through the deck of cards until the queen of spades was once again in her hand. 

It was time to quit. 

Leonie pinched the card between her forefingers and thumbs and, without a second thought, ripped it (and her heart) in two. No more Rose. 

She gathered up her belongings. The glint of sun on water caught her attention, reminding her of the river that bounced and bubbled beside her. For a moment, the thought of _no more Leonie, please, just let it be over_ crossed her mind. But no. She still had hopes of redemption. Horst just was not that helping hand she had been looking for. 

Leonie left the queen of spades on the picnic blanket, next to the dinky box that held the ring Horst had offered her.


	3. Chapter 3

"Now, Miss Barrow. That is your real name, isn't it? We can't find records of any of the others beyond those stints that you used them for, and Leonie Barrow does seem to have actually existed at one point." Cabal sat across from her in the dimly lit interrogation room. His hands were folded over the table, and he stared down his nose at her and not at his notes. 

"You may call me Miss Barrow if you'd like. I'd respond to anything you called me." She twirled her hair around one finger, lounging in the uncomfortable chair. She shifted to make it more accommodating, but nothing helped. So she tried to pull off calm and collected just as well as he did. 

"That's not the question. Are you, or are you not, Miss Leonie Barrow by birth?" 

She glanced up at the ceiling, watching the two lights flicker in time with her heartbeat. She wondered if he noticed. "Now, that's an unfair question, Mister Cabal." 

"Oh? How so." 

"Every one of the names I bore, I bore at the creation of their character." She glanced at him briefly and sent a winning smile his way. He didn't return it. "Each one had their own birth, you can say. So at any point in my time as one of the others, born from my own mind, I held that name at the beginning." 

"You're evading the question." 

"And I said you may call me Miss Barrow if you please. Or Leonie. I'd be fine with either." She finally set aside the curl she had been toying with and sat forward in her chair as well. Her hands folded across the surface of the table, mimicking his position, but stretching herself out from the chair. "And can I call you Johannes?" 

"You will call me Sir, Detective, or Mister Cabal, whichever you prefer, Miss Barrow." He sniffed, clearly unsatisfied with her attitude, and finally glanced down at the papers before him. "You first came to that small city where you met the late Horst Cabal back when you were sixteen, am I correct? You had the name Rosie then." 

"I did not have that name, I was that name." 

"Stop evading the question." 

"I'm not. I'm clarifying for you." Leonie sat up, back ramrod straight, and it was her own turn to fix the man across the table with a glare that rivaled his. "You mock me, Mister Cabal. Detective." She spat out the word. "My father had been a detective, back before I was born. He retired when my mother died. I feel like you insult the profession with these shallow questions." 

The young man hesitated. He actually paused long enough for his eyebrows to rise, crinkling his forehead in surprise, though no other portion of his face gave away the expression. Then he smiled, and it was enough to make her cower back in her seat. "I see I struck a nerve, Miss Barrow. I do apologize." There was something in his smile that sent a shiver racing down her spine. He was handsome enough with nothing to give away his emotions, but the smile was real and it frightened her. 

"Apology accepted," she muttered, though it really wasn't and he knew it -- but only because his apology had never been real to begin with. Shallow words, that's all they were exchanging. 

"So, to continue. You left Horst Cabal after he proposed marriage to you, correct?" 

"I did." 

"You left behind something for him, did you not?" 

She furrowed her brow and tilted her head to the side. "Left something behind?" 

"A card. The queen of spades." 

She hesitated, and this time confusion mixed with panic. "I did? Yes, yes I did." 

"Do you remember why you did it, Miss Barrow?" 

"I fail to see what this has to do with the investigation, Mister Cabal." 

He sighed and ruffled through his papers for a moment, then selected a stack of photographs held together with a paperclip. "These three are from the other crime scenes -- the actual crime scenes." 

Leonie took them and shuffled through them. Each was a playing card, different than the one she had left behind on the shore so many years ago. 

"A queen of hearts was found at each scene. We began to call it a calling card, though the term itself is inaccurate as it came too late." 

"A calling card?" 

"Thieves leave them at crime scenes they are going to strike at, as a sort of underhanded jab at the police force." Cabal waved a hand dismissively. "Yours were a link, a clue, to tie all the crimes together." He planted his hands on the table and leaned across toward her, much like she had before. Only there was nothing sensual about his movements. They were all cold and calculated. "I think you wanted to be caught, Miss Barrow."

She furrowed her brow, then burst into laughter. "Me? Want to be caught? Why would someone ever want to be caught?"

"Sometimes, there is something underlying in the criminal's subconscious that make them leave behind clues, such as these queen of hearts cards." Cabal tapped the picture in front of her before settling back into his chair. 

"And you think that I am this individual? And why do you pin the death of Horst Cabal on me? I admit to having a relation with him, but he was alive when I left." 

"You as good as killed him," Cabal hissed, and the lights above their heads flickered. "After you left, he moped about the house for months. Became useless, lifeless. He died of a broken heart, Miss Barrow, and while that is not punishable by law, I hope that there might be some sort of guilt to inflict upon your conscience." 

She snorted, ignored the twist of the knife in her gut, and waved her had in front of her face. "You get me wrong, Mister Cabal. I had nothing to do with Horst's death. There is no way that I was the sole reason his heart broke. He broke it on his own, and he would have broken mine if I had stayed." 

"And so that is why you decided to kill?" 

"What?! No!" 

"So you admit to killing these three victims?" 

"No, of course not! Don't be absurd, Mister Cabal. There is no way that is a logical conclusion." 

Cabal drew a piece of paper out from his collection and held it aloft before his face. He adjusted his blue smoked lenses, useless here in this lighting, she thought, and cleared his throat. "June 6th, 1867. Mansion of Mister Dahl found burnt to the ground. His body, and the body of several staff, were located inside. His young wife, Miss Leonie Barrow, was found, catatonic, in her father's house the following morning. She did not respond to any of our questions before disappearing by the week’s end." 

Her eyes widened. It had been so long since she had heard that name, since the fire had returned to her memory. It burned even now, sparking to life behind Cabal and filling the small room with its scorching heat. It made it hard to breath, and she struggled for air against the smoke that filled her lungs. "What is that?" 

"Police report from Penlow from the night of the great fire. That is you mentioned in that story, correct?"

"Yes." Her reply was breathless, barely a whisper, but he nodded all the same. 

"Was there anything leading up to your husband's death that might have made you unhappy?" 

Leonie turned her gaze on him, but still could not muster the strength for words. 

Cabal understood her glance and set down the paper. "For instance, was he having an affair? Not paying attention to you as often as he used to? Or was he not performing as well as he had on previous occasions?" 

This brought her back to the present and she slapped her hands against the table, using the surface to lever her to her feet so that she could glare down at the pale man. "Are you suggesting, sir, that I murdered my husband because he did not perform well in bed?" A laugh escaped her lips, high and hysterical, and it took several minutes for it to calm down. 

The whole time, Cabal watched her with disinterested eyes. 

Once the final trickle left her lips, she dropped down into the chair and buried her face in her hands. "How dare you insinuate something like that." 

"You loved your husband then?" 

"As much as any sixteen year old girl forced into an arranged marriage can love someone, I suppose I did." 

"But he broke your heart?" 

"I did when he did. Leonie Barrow died in that fire." 

"And that is why you took the name Rosie O’Donnell? The name Orfilia Ninuka, and Nea Winshaw." With each name, he slapped down a picture of each man that had been a victim. Horst, first, and her heart ached. Next, fat old Reginald from god knows where because she certainly didn't, who liked her fake accent and liked her breasts far too much. Then there was stupid Tom Collins, and his crass personality, treating her like a whore. Finally, simple minded and innocent Ben Mullins, who had been just a rosie cheeked boy when she met him and ended up a rosie chested corpse by the time she left. The slow trickle of strained laughter started up in her chest, then tumbled out of her mouth. 

"You are a horrible man, Mister Cabal." 

"And I have reason to believe you are a horrible woman, Miss Barrow." 

The laughter turned to a tight sob, and she sunk down into the chair and ran her fingers back through her hair, groaning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with the hints of non-con. Just as a warning.

Rosie had been too close to her own heart for comfort, Leonie realized belatedly as she picked her way across one country and into the next. So one day she decided to go for something that felt so completely different. 

She gave herself a fake accent and pretended to be someone of great import. She named herself Orfilia Ninuka whenever she could. She wore the best clothes and jewels that the money of her new lover could buy. 

_When did this start happening?_ she often asked herself. A string of men had lined up after she left Horst, and she took them all to forget. To forget him, to forget the fire. 

Reginald was as rich as they came, as far as she could tell. She met him at the theater, one of the rare occasions she managed to scrape together enough money to dress up and pretend to be rich and petty Orfilia. It was love at first sight, or in the very least, he lusted after her. He sent her jewels and dresses, and this time she didn't have to work so hard to attend the theater when he invited her. 

That's when it began, she figured. His hand on her thigh in the private box seat her reserved for the season. His lips on the curve just below her ear, whispering all the dirty, filthy things he would do to her later, once they got home, once they were in private. Of course, he didn't always wait whenever he took her to the theater.

This one liked to touch her, a little too much she soon found out. His clammy fingers would poke and squeeze and caress her flesh, and at first she accepted it. Or, more specifically, Orfilia would accept it. 

Inside, Leonie screamed and cried, pretending that it was someone else’s hand upon her breast, the fat thighs pinning her to the bed were enjoyable—made her want the stupid prick (which one, either one, she lost track after awhile it didn’t really matter). 

Orfilia did this all in hopes of shutting up Leonie. Rosie was good. She disappeared when she had to. But Leonie was constantly at war with Orfilia over her body, her sanity, and she was constantly losing. (That had been the point all along, right?)

(It was, and that’s why the joke was on her.) 

One morning, early, just before the sun could kiss the horizon with the rosy fingers of dawn, she knew it was time to leave. She left him on the bed, still naked from attack on her the night before. She wrapped the sheet around her body and stood, silhouetted by the rising sun. It must have made a very beautiful image, she figured, because he was crying when he woke up to find her standing there, knife in hand, cold expression on her face. 

She ransacked his drawers, shoving all of the things that she could into a bag. Money, jewels, clothes. Anything that could be pawned or used to keep her safe for just another day. That's all she needed, one more day. And one more day after that, and after that--

At the very last moment, she spotted a deck of cards in the kitchen as she rifled about for something to eat. She pulled them out and shuffled through them. She found the card she was looking for. 

Leonie went back up the stairs and into the master bedroom. She had left the windows open to the crisp breeze, so the room hadn't started to stink yet despite the clotting of the blood. She left a kiss on the card, and left the queen of hearts on his chest. "One final farewell, dear Reginald. You will not be missed." Her lips curled into a smile, cruel and vicious, and she picked up her bags and left. 

She went to another country, then. Back to somewhere familiar and not so strange. She had enough money to keep her head ducked. Sold all the jewels and fancy clothes, bought herself more practical things. She never did like being trussed up in such finery. The rustling of silk dresses brought to mind too many unpleasant and not long dead enough memories. 

Orifilia would no longer suffice. She lost a bit of that name with each of the jewels she parted with. And once the final dress was gone, pawned off into the grubby hands of a man missing too many teeth, Leonie was free to be herself once again. 

Of course, even that was dangerous. So she had to find some other option


	5. Chapter 5

Cabal massaged the sides of his head, long tapered fingers disappearing into the strands of blond hair. He looked haggard and frustrated. They had been there for most of the night. 

Leonie wondered when her escort was going to arrive to pick her up. He had sent her word that he would. Until then, she studied her cuticles and waited out the interrogation. 

To her surprise, Cabal reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It was shoved unceremoniously between his lips and a match was brought up to light it. He took several grateful puffs before leaning back in his chair and staring dully up at the ceiling. 

"Are you even allowed to smoke in here?" 

He grunted in response and stuck the cigarette back into his mouth. "If they want to solve any cases, they'll let me do what I want." 

She chuckled, though this just gained her a raised eyebrow in response. "So you think you're some kind of big shot around here?" 

"Think? I am, Miss Barrow. I can guarantee that nearly seventy percent of the cases solved in this piss poor little station are because of me. Of course, I've been following your trail for a few months now. Lost sight of you for a bit through France, found you again shortly after." 

"You mean you were following the trail of hearts?" 

He nodded his head once, acknowledging her answer. "Are you admitting to leaving them?" 

"There's nothing to admit to." 

"There were more, you know. Than just the three." He no longer included Horst in his list of victims. She had seen the way his face twisted every time he mentioned his brother. She figured it was for as much his benefit as it was hers. "But I was only a part of the investigations for these three. I was put in charge shortly after that little incident in Munich."

"Oh? And what happened in Munich?" 

He was too tired to slam his hand on the table. Too tired to move. She was winning this game. Just another hour or so, and her escort would be here to take her to safety. "You know damn well what happened there. That little Collins boy. Did you know he was barely even eighteen?" 

Liar. He had told her he was twenty, to that she believed it for a moment. He was probably closer to sixteen, with his knobby knees and stumbling speech. 

She feigned disinterest, pushing herself to her feet and walking around to his side of the table. "You seem like an obvious expert on this topic, Mister Cabal." She slid onto the table, crossing her legs and not even bothering to rearrange her skirt as she did so. Her legs were right by his face, his eyes at thigh level. 

Despite his best attempt at disguising it, he stole a glance the smooth expanse of skin before turning his sardonic glare up to her face.

God bless his cold little heart. He did act like a man after all. 

She propped her hands against the table’s edge and leaned forward, and now his eyes were focused on her cleavage, the lacy line of her camisole peeping out from her button down blazer. He wasn't even trying to disguise it now. Just another man all the same, and somehow, she was more than just a little disappointed. "You don't really think I could have done all of that, could you, Mister Cabal?" 

He didn't respond as she leaned forward, didn't make a move as her fingers curled around his cigarette. Instead, his cold blue eyes shifted to her face and held her gaze steady. She pulled the cigarette from his mouth and slid it into hers, rolling the butt of it around her tongue before taking a deep drag. 

Why did this man fascinate her so much? He was nothing like Horst, not even if he looked when she showed some skin. (All men looked. It was basic instinct for them.) Because while most men would look and long for, covet, lust after, he simply regarded her in the basest of interest. He watched her as if he watched an experiment, observing a rat in a maze. 

Well then. 

She blew the smoke into his face and he winced against it. Only when he opened his eyes again, she had slid off the table and stood so that her hands were on the back of his chair, hemming him in between her arms. She leaned over to place her lips next to his ear. "You have nothing against me, Mister Cabal, except for a bitter and disgruntled heart. And let me tell you right now, that is a weapon that women can wield much better than men can." 

"That sounds like the words of a woman who knows she is guilty but is trying to convince everyone otherwise, herself included." 

He was such a fascinating man. She wanted to take the time to study him, if she still wasn't so terrified that he would find out her deepest secrets. Because killing those men, that had been nothing. That was not what she was hiding. As far as she is concerned, she was not the one to kill them anyway. 

That would be the others, Orifilia and Nea. She was innocent. 

Leonie smiled, lips curling as she purred in amusement and offered the cigarette back to him. 

He declined it with a wave of his hand and pulled a fresh one from the pack in his pocket. 

"Suit yourself." She sauntered back around the table to her chair. "But I am curious. How did you get onto pinpointing me as the suspect in the first place?"

"I told you, it was all because of Munich." 

"I really have no idea what you mean." And she didn't, because she had always been so careful, so flawless. He said he had been on her trail before, but she really just suspected he had a hunch that the killings were connected and then pinioned the blame on her come this event in Munich. 

"I don't care to walk down memory lane. I'm going to wait until you figure this out." 

"We'll be here all night." 

"I have all night to spare." 

"How sad to hear that. I'll be making bail in the morning, you know, because you've got nothing to hold me on except for a bunch of circumstantial evidence." 

"Can you tell me where you were on the night of January 17th, 1872?"

"That was three years ago. You can't honestly expect me to remember that far back." 

"I would think you might find it pertinent to do so. Your alibi can mean if I'm right or not." 

She sighed and rolled her eyes, spinning the cigarette between her fingers before tapping it against the edge of the chair and sending a snowfall of ash onto the floor. "You tell me where you were three years ago." 

"That's not the point." 

"That is precisely the point. And that is why I am just going to outlast you until morning when I will have to go free, and any apology you try to give to me will be thrown back into your face." 

He watched her over the flame of his match, and for just a fleeting moment, panic seized her gut and gripped it tight. His glasses reflected the light, made his eyes glow with it, and she was afraid -- so very afraid. 

"Miss Barrow?" Cabal hissed in pain as the flame reached his fingers, and the connection was broken. 

She shook herself to, glancing around the room in confusion. "What?" 

"Is everything alright?" 

She could have laughed if she was paying any more attention to his words. "Yes, I apologize. It's just that... sometimes I still have dreams about the fire." For some odd reason, she was glad that the expression of pity that had become so familiar with the talk of her late husband never crossed Cabal's face. He had a heart, but it wasn't all that big, after all. 

"I see. Understandable. Trauma like that often sticks with a person. And while I am curious as to how that fire started and how you alone escaped, that is not what we are here for." 

"No. You want to know about Munich." 

"I would like to know very much about Munich." 

"I'm sorry you have to ask me. I am terrible with geography. Is that in Germany? I can never remember if it is closer to France or Poland."

"Austria, actually." 

"Yes, right." She crossed her legs before her and leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. "I wonder what did happen in Munich..."


	6. Chapter 6

Munich was, admittedly, a blur for her. She drank a lot, didn't speak much of the language, and slept with whoever offered. That was after Tom, and she decided to take his advice to heart after cutting up his. She would swan about the city dressed in the fake version of her previous finery. She was drunk most of that month. 

She met Ben one morning as he stumbled, pink cheeked and blind in the morning light, over the curb in front of the church. At that point in time, she had been flitting between aliases, which were something completely different than Rosie and Orfilia. But when she saw him there, his round eyes gazing up into hers with a curious innocence, that was when she became Nea Winshaw. 

She cleaned up after that. Stopped drinking, saved up the money should could, and began to become a respectable girl again. It's what Ben wanted, and she was more than willing to give him whatever he asked for. All he had to do was bat those lashes at her and her knees went weak. 

They talked about moving to England together. (She no longer thought of Horst by then. He had been drowned in the river back when she should have drowned Leonie. She had thought back to that time and imagined pushing him in and tossing the queen of spades after him.) It was a boring life, so boring and stationary, and everything that she really should have wanted. Nothing in her past mattered to him, and it was only their present that he talked about. And the future. 

He attended church often, and she often found this quite curious because he was never religious when they were together. But he told her it was because he had been raised that way, to attend the services, and to worship God above all others. 

Well, turned out he worshipped God above all a little too strongly. 

He said he had friends back in England, where he was from, where she might have been from once upon a time. That they would be able to take care of the two of them until they could find their feet. His friends would be more than willing to offer them food and a place to stay, clothes when needed, anything they might require. 

Nea agreed whole heartedly. She wanted nothing more than to be with Ben, no matter where they were. It was the simple, oh so very simple, romance she always longed for (always consisting of about two months, since that's how old she was -- but maybe Leonie had more than a little something to do with that desire). And there was nothing in the whole world that would have thought to make her even stray from Ben's side. 

So they gathered up their few belongings, had no one to say goodbyes to in Munich, and left on a train. From the coast, they took a boat to England. 

As soon as her feet landed on the quay, solid ground after weeks of a boat rocking beneath them, Nea took a deep breath and had the strangest sensation of being a stranger and being at home in this country. Her heart soared as Ben took her hand, and together they went to find the friends that he had promised. 

They lived together in a small commune, she learned. They worshiped together, occasionally went to an actual church, but otherwise held services all together in the large hall. Nea had never considered herself religious, but when asked, she was baptized at a young age into the Church and would pray when appropriate. 

But even as she said all of those things, they were strange lies on her tongue. Both as Nea and as Leonie. They spilled forth from her mouth like truths, and the others ate them up. She could taste the poison in the back of her mouth, and she wondered just how it got there. 

Months passed, and suddenly it had been a whole year since returning to England, and Nea began to wonder just when they were going to move out on their own. She often wondered this to herself, save for one occasion where she wondered it aloud to Ben. The look on his face as soon as the thought escaped let her know that she was never to ask something like that again. So she didn't, kept the question bottled up inside of her, and maybe -- just maybe -- that added to the bad taste that continued to fester. 

She was roped into service along with the other women in the commune, doing the laundry and cooking the meals from time to time. The men would sit around and discuss theology, or go into town and preach. Or at least, that is what she was told. She had no reason not to believe them, but their words had the same taste that hers did. Who was making all of them lie like this? 

Nea knew she was going to go crazy in that place. It was so small and so removed from the rest of society. Only a small kernel in her heart urged her to remain, just keep staying. No one could catch her here, though she was confused as to why someone would be after her. She was just Nea Winshaw, and innocent woman who was in love with a man she hardly saw anymore. 

His baby face had hardened over the last few months, or had it always been that tense and pinched? Had she just been drawn into the roundness of his eyes and desired to see everything else of his in the same innocence? 

She took to pacing, as it was one of the only habits she was allowed. Reading was out, she couldn't manage sewing unless it was darning socks because no one would look twice at the odd lumps, and she was not allowed to leave. 

That was the worst part: not leaving. 

Sometimes she figured she might have been able to tolerate everything if she had been able to leave every once in awhile, go into town to buy groceries (the men did that), or to buy herself a new dress (the other women gave her their old ones). But instead she was kept inside this small little secluded paradise and began to forget just where she was. 

It was easy to understand why she would snap, wasn't it? The others had nothing to do with her madness, her mess, and so she left them alone. Someone needed to mourn for and bury Ben when she could not.


	7. Chapter 7

Dawn rose to find Leonie with her forehead pressed against the table, ignoring the array of photos spread out before her, and Cabal with his back to the room and his eyes pinched against the glare of the sun. His hands were folded behind his back, pale fingers turning white with pressure as he suppressed his rage. 

Dawn announced itself with a knock on the door, causing her to jolt upright in her seat. The two of them looked at the door, then at each other. A slow, calm smile pulled at Leonie's lips. "Well then. This has been fun, Mister Cabal. I don't look forward to doing this every again." She fixed her hair idly as the door swung open and an officer poked his head in. 

"Detective Cabal, a word." 

With crisp steps that disguised his exhaustion well, Cabal crossed the room and stepped into the hall. Their voices were low and muttered before the door swung shut behind them. 

Leonie rubbed a finger across the line of her lips. This was it. Her escort was here to pick her up. Everything would go away. She could pick another name, maybe, or go home and face her fears. Who knew. She would be free, either way. 

Cabal came back into the room, and this time he looked every bit of his thirty years. He rubbed a hand over his face, back through his hair, and Leonie thought _this is it I have beaten him_. "Your request for bail has been denied, Miss Barrow." 

Cold fear dropped like a stone at her feet. She stared at him, baffled, speechless, and utterly confused. "What?" 

"The news just came in." He waved a piece of paper at her, then tossed it on the table to cover up the photos as he passed. "Sorry you got your hopes up. Our case was far more solid than you believed." 

"How can this happen?" She picked up the letter, her eyes running over the lines over and over again without even believing them. "You have nothing on me!" 

"Apparently they think we have enough." Smug satisfaction colored his expression, despite his pinched brow and tight smile. "You will be taken to a holding facility until the court case. You are, of course, welcome to a lawyer if you think one will help." 

"I don't need one if I am innocent!" She tried to rise to her feet, but her arms had no strength. For the second time in as many days, she found herself powerless to do anything but just be so so very afraid. 

The door opened again and a tall, red haired man stepped in. Despite how awkward he moved in his uniform, pulling at the stiff collar and his eyes shifting nervously between the detective and the woman, he walked with confidence over to her side. "I'm here to escort Miss Barrow to the prison, Sir." 

Cabal's back was to the room once again, and he waved his hand meaninglessly at the pair of them. "Alright then. It was a pleasure, Miss Barrow. You certainly did give me a run for my money." 

Leonie lunged to her feet, startling the officer. His hands sprang away from her and he stumbled back a pace. "This isn't over yet, Mister Cabal!" she shrieked. "You have no right to do this to me!" 

He turned to face her, blue eyes empty and uninterested. "You had no right to kill those people, Miss Barrow. I suppose if both of us must be in the wrong, I should at least remind you of your transgressions since you seem so keen on ignoring them." 

She screamed again, fighting against the hands that clamped down on her shoulders and her waist. She couldn't form any words, just let the emotions stream from her mouth in an endless cry. Once they were out of the interrogation room, Leonie slumped in the arms of the officer and bit back a sob.


	8. Chapter 8

Outside, in the car, she touched up her makeup and fixed her hair with a brush. She looked like such a mess. 

"Excellent job, Miss Barrow." 

She smiled at the man over the rim of her compact, then snapped it shut and dropped it into her purse. "You had me worried there for a moment." 

"I would never back down from a promise, Miss Barrow." 

"Oh, Rufus, I don't know what I would ever do without you beside me." She rested her head against his shoulder as the car started up. He pulled out of the driveway of the station, onto the highway, and onward to safety.


	9. Chapter 9

Years passed by in a blur. One, two, and suddenly she was nearing thirty and she was still alone and haunted by fire. 

She never could live easy again after that time she had been confronted with the worst of her fears. There was something all too humbling about being arrested for crimes your body committed but your mind didn't. 

She remained Leonie Barrow. She never saw her father again, because she was all too certain that Cabal would go to him the moment he learned she had escaped. She went abroad again, keeping her head low just like she did when she first set off on this ridiculous adventure. She went alone. 

Rufus was the last. She left a note on the body, along with the calling card. 

"Think of this as a parting gift, Johannes, from me to you. You are never going to find me again." 

She sealed it with a kiss for the fascinating detective and left the small little cottage she had shared with the Scottish man for a month. 

Then the time went by and she began to slow down. She couldn't move as fast. Of course, her body was fine and healthy, but it was her mind that made her falter. Things were catching up with her. Memories of the fire, of the river, of the theater, the streets, the drinks, the church.

She lost track of where she was going. She stumbled across the country until she could move no further. 

It took a few days, maybe a week, before Cabal found her. 

She lounged in the chair overlooking the lawn, twirling her hair between her fingers much like she had done all that time ago, back when she was still clever and in charge of her mind. 

“Miss Barrow.” 

“Mister Cabal.” 

“You called?” 

“Oh good, you found my gift. I was beginning to worry.” 

“You didn’t make it easy to find you.” 

“I didn’t want to be found.” 

He chuckled, and her hands paused. That was not a sound she expected to hear from him. The crunch of leaves underfoot and he stood next to her, gazing out at the expanse of garden as well. A handful of people played croquet on one end of the lawn, while a few stood clustered under a gazebo. “You did. Just like before. I stand by my earlier assumption.” 

She snorted and turned her head so all she could see of him was the faint shadow that reached for hers. 

He let the silence draw out between them until a light smattering of raindrops fell upon their heads. “An interesting place you have landed in.” 

“People like me,” she agreed, and the sound that escaped her lips might have been a laugh, or a sob. She wasn’t too sure. “Ones that have found themselves lost and broken after so long of wandering.” 

“Come back with me, Miss Barrow.” 

“You know I can’t.” 

“You have to.” 

She smacked his hand away, but he made no sound in offense. “I am not going back there to be arrested and tried for murder.” 

Cabal crouched beside her, his black gloves a stark contrast against the pale cream of her sleeve. “I can’t try you, Miss Barrow, not if you claim insanity.” 

She shot him a dirty look, but didn’t say anything. It was true, as much as she hated to admit it. All those other voices in her head told her as much. “Then why are you here, Mister Cabal?” 

“I wanted to talk to you about Horst.” 

Leonie drew back slightly, her brow furrowing. He wasn’t meeting her gaze. He stared resolutely at a blade of grass amongst many others. “You’re not here as a detective?” 

“No. I wasn’t cut out for the job. I work better with things that don’t talk back.” 

“You are a mortician then?” She recalled the way he was dressed on their first meeting, and she was hardly surprised to find him dressed almost exactly the same. 

He sighed, heavy and tried, and ran a hand back through his hair. “Why does everyone seem to think that of me?” His voice was soft, muttered, barely audible, but she caught it and giggled. Cabal straightened his posture and disappeared for a moment, only to return with a chair in tow. 

He set this chair up next to hers, on the other side of the small round table that held a cold pot of tea and a single cup. He dropped into it and folded his hands over his stomach. A brown Gladstone bag rested by his feet. 

“Do you really not care anymore? About the deaths?” 

“Truth be told, I find death quite a fascinating hindrance to science, my brother’s most so.” His thumbs smoothed over invisible creases on his jacket. “That is part of the reason I began to investigate you in the first place.”

“So very clinical of you, Mister Cabal.” 

“You think so?” 

“ _Pas vraiment_. Speaking of, where are we? I can never remember. Terrible—” 

“With geography, yes I remember.” He took a breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. “We are in Munich.” 

It took a second for the meaning to hit her, and then she burst into a round of fresh giggles. “Oh, how perfect. The two of us back here in this city. Now, Mister Cabal, I’d like you to tell me about how you remember Munich, because I feel that our stories might be very different.” 

And so Johannes Cabal began to speak, recounting his version of how he became involved in her story, how he followed her between crime scenes. As he rambled on, his voice low and slightly accented, she only began to discover, Leonie Barrow started to realize that there was so much more to the women that still haunted her than she had even been aware.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to write fanfiction in NaNoWriMo instead of my novel. Based off of Molotov Jukebox's "Don't Panic" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bJqNR0nrUE).


End file.
